Orpheus stroked his chin, one arm tucked under the other, and rested back with his gaze to the ceiling. It served well to stretch his aching neck - stiff from the rough thatch and layered sacks he'd called a pillow. His eyes drifted, counting each deformity in the stone and timber above. They moved slow, so as to not miss a single one. There was a slight tilt of acknowledgement each time he had found one as if to add to the tally in his mind.

 

Then there was a knock.

 

“At long fucking last,” he said, pulling his head toward the door and stepping up in one motion. His steps were rehearsed, as were to be his opening words. But, when he grasped the doorknob and turned it, there was a rather lacklustre greeting.

 

A young woman stood there, black of hair. Each lock seemed to blend into the dusk of colours set upon her leather coat. A scar lay over her right eyebrow. She paused to raise it. There was a look of slight disappointment. The woman brought her arms up to a fold and the coat moved just enough to reveal a dagger sheathed at her waist beneath it.

 

“Excuse me? Fucking speak.”

 

“Guess I expected more from the Dame’s apprentice, but you’re pretty flimsy looking,” She replied, her tinted eyes looking him right up and down.

 

“And you are what? The dorm room whore?”

 

“Get stuffed,” the woman scoffed, “Your assignment’s with Professor Omaex. Find him in the Bronze Tower up and over the hill, it's hard to miss if you keep walking.”

 

“Spit it out sooner. Do you presume I’ve time for pointless chatter?” Orpheus replied, the door inching closer to shut. “If you’ve passed your message, piss off.”

 

Without the chance for a reply of her own, the door shut and the lock clicked.

 

“Asshole,” she said, muffled in the hall, before storming off.

 

“Assignment,” he said, “You’ll absolutely not have me gallivanting in the fucking rain.”

 

He stood there a moment in protest of a feeling that gradually bubbled within himself. It rose. He fought it. It continued. And so did he. Finally, with great reluctance he reached for the hangers and donned his cloak. There was a grumble from his belly.

 

He mumbled to himself as he turned the door and stepped into the hallway not long after the woman. “Ned fucking Harrien. What a shitty name. Is the food here as disgusting as those dried slabs?”

 

—

 

The doors to the old inn clattered against the wall. There was a rattle from the old lock, as Orpheus entered with squishes and slushes; his boots unleashed a flood of water as he pulled them from his feet, stepping forth from the puddle with his toes bare.

 

“One might presume a sign or rather would be bloody helpful, do you all know how long it took me to find this fucking place?” he said aloud to the inhabitants of the old inn, though there only appeared to be two.

 

One, an elderly lady, wore a stained apron without much of an expression or, if there was, it was hidden beneath the sags of wrinkles that hung over her face. Her face did not turn to meet Orpheus as he entered, likely due to the skin that tunnelled her vision and the withering of her hearing in the passing years. The white curls of her hair were about as active as the mind they rested on.

 

Orpheus moved for the bar counter where he stood in expectation of a greeting, but the elderly barmaid said naught. He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes in an attempt to spur some semblance of life. It failed.

 

“Are you daft? I want some fucking food,” Orpheus said as the snapping of his fingers turned to a wave. There was a growing temptation to flick her forehead, though he was interrupted by the only other person in the room.

 

“Give her your order, she’ll go back and make it,” the quiet voice spoke out from a table one row from the back wall.

 

Orpheus turned to the voice and saw a young man, perhaps his age. His hair was paler than the elderly lady’s, and he wore robes and a poncho befitting of a nomad or wanderer. He sunk his spoon into some unidentifiable stew and took small mouthfuls, greeting Orpheus with kind eyes. However, that’s when he took notice. The grey-haired boy had no whites to his eyes, instead, they were enveloped in a deep black that swallowed the amber tone of his iris, resembling the dying flickers of candlelight.

 

“Her? An order? The old bag of dust that cannot even understand if she’s living?” he replied, turning back to the elderly woman. “Oven-baked quail with sourdough. I should like the gravy in silver and keep the quail unsalted, I presume I’d like to salt it myself - lest we both die of a bloody heart attack.”

 

The elderly woman raised her head and, slowly, the door to her mouth fell ajar. When she finally gave her response, it took the form of a dispassionate and simple: “No.”

 

“You fucking codger,” Orpheus spoke over his shoulder to the grey-haired boy. “You’re a lying bastard. Clearly, the woman is ill.”

 

“It’s Dantanian.”

 

“What the fuck is a Dantanian?” he replied, his face folding into itself as if to call rays of stupidity down unto the grey-haired boy.

 

“My name. It’s not lying bastard, it’s Dantanian,” he replied, before putting another spoonful of stew in his mouth. There was a brief slop as a chunk of potato fell back into the bowl. “Order something simple and I’m sure the Madam will get right to it.”

 

“Something simple - that was bloody simple!” Orpheus dropped his face to his palms, then turned to the elderly barmaid. She hadn’t moved since she gave her reply. “Fine. Hag, hand me whatever slop it is the bastard over there is having. If I die in my own shit and vomit, I’ll be sure to come back and fucking haunt you.”

 

Crooked and creaking, her old bones pulled the stained apron, and withering flesh beneath it, out from the bar counter and in through the kitchen doors.

 

“The stew’s not so bad. You get used to it,” Dantanian said in an attempt to reassure him.

 

“Close your fucking lips. I’m certain your standards in cuisine are as high as they are in fashion,” Orpheus replied, taking a seat at a table three rows down from him. He pulled his damp boots back over his feet.

 

Dantanian scraped what remained in the coarse wooden bowl, finishing every bite of it before laying the spoon to rest. His chair screeched forward and leaned onto his elbows. Orpheus almost sighed as he noticed a look of curiosity.

 

“So, did you have a name?”

 

“I did, and I do.”

 

“I mean, of course, you do, but I’m asking you what it is,” Dantanian replied, undeterred by Orpheus’ lack of interest.

 

“And for which reason is that?”

 

“Well, aside from it simply being polite,” Dantanian began to answer. His amber eyes flickered blue for just a moment. “The mana, the way it gathers around you, it's uncanny - unsettling even. I find it intriguing.”

 

“Honestly. You lot fancy pestering words,” he said. “I’m not here to bloody intrigue you, I’m here to eat my food - if I’ll even be able to call it that. Find an intrigue in your fucking soup bowl.”

 

Surprise took Dantanian, as he hadn’t quite the words to respond. There was enough surprise that soon enough, an awkward silence befell the room; it left only the tumbling of Dantanian’s spoon as he flicked it to fill the silence.

 

“Orpheus. That’s my name. Understand it clearly. You’ll hear it a lot. Now would you do something about that strange fucking pouting and piss off?” 

 

“Orpheus, well it has been a plea-, uh,” Dantanian said as he stood from his seat, catching his words unintentionally. He then looked to Orpheus and nodded his head. “Well met.”

 

“Hmph,” he chuffed as the grey-haired boy wandered by him. There was a squelch as Orpheus dug his toes into the soles of his boots. He twiddled his thumbs, not looking at the door as it shut behind the boy.

 

The elderly barmaid soon emerged from the kitchen, however, her head slowly pivoted toward the dishes left behind. Stew in hand, she set down Orpheus’ meal on the bar counter and left it to collect the dishes - one heaving step at a time.

 

“I presume you have lost your god-damned mind hag,” he said under his breath, his fists clenched. He slammed them both down on the table.  “Would you not think my meal more important?!”

 

—

 

He sat slumped over his crooked table with his face smothered into the skin of his crossed forearms. Each breath was shallow and strained, inflating and deflating his chest on the table’s edge. His eyes stung, swallowed by the black bags that hung below them; but he was not asleep.

 

Days had passed and Orpheus had barely slept a wink. His mind had grown blank and his patience thin. He’d ventured out only to sustain himself, though each trip beyond his door grew shorter.

 

Then, as if to interrupt his rest, three successive knocks pried open his eyes. They glanced to the door without the movement of his head. Before he could respond, or close his eyes again, three more successive knocks followed.

 

He mumbled to himself while he dragged his arms and head from the tabletop. Another three knocks followed. It had struck a nerve.

 

“You were heard the first six fucking times, have you no patience,” as he grumbled aloud, he was quickly cut off: another three knocks.

 

He stormed with heavy steps and almost pulled the knob from its fixings. Bloodshot, he glared at the intruder of his peace. It was the dark-haired woman. Her scar twisted as she frowned with a constant tapping of her finger on her folded arms. Her jaw clenched, releasing only when she chose to speak.

 

“When exactly do you plan on turning up for your first assignm-”

 

The door slammed shut in her face.

 

“I think not.”